


Requiem

by ScullyLikesScience



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Babies, Bittersweet, F/M, Family, Happy Ending, Jonsa Spring Challenge, Light Angst, Love Confessions, Pining, Post-Canon, Post-War for the Dawn, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-15 02:12:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14149698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScullyLikesScience/pseuds/ScullyLikesScience
Summary: After the Long Night has ended, the future of House Stark must be decided.





	Requiem

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Day 5 of the Jonsa Spring Challenge, sponsored by @jonsa-creatives on Tumblr.

Jon sat at the table inside the council chambers, what had once been a symbol of his former office, Ghost asleep at his feet. He was no longer a king, and it seemed like an age had passed since he’d last been inside this room. Samwell Tarly sat beside him, reading scrolls. Ten days ago, what was left of Winterfell’s ravens flew south to every castle and keep in Westeros to announce the defeat of the realm’s enemies, Jon Snow’s survival, and his return to the seat of House Stark. The scrolls began arriving earlier that morning. It was now late into the evening, well past supper, and Sam was reading by candlelight.

“An emissary from House Dayne will also be arriving sometime in the near future,” said Sam, before setting the scroll aside on the table and reaching for a new one. “But it could be a long while before they get this far north. And that makes eight Houses so far, from all over the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Seven hells. Why?” Jon sighed, leaning back against the chair and closing his eyes. The first several days after he returned home had been spent holed up inside his bedchamber, being tended to by Sam and Gilly. His little sister had been there, too, diligently sitting by his bedside and serving him hot stew. He still couldn’t believe Arya was alive. He couldn’t believe any of them were.

Bran had come to see him on the third day, wanting to speak of the Night King and Daenerys and the dragon, but Jon had refused to speak. He didn’t want to talk about them right now, and he wasn’t sure if he ever would. Bran soon left him to rest, and Arya took up her place in the chair beside his four-poster. While he was grateful for her company, grateful she was alive, and Bran, not to mention Sam and Gilly, there was one person whose company he craved most of all.

Every day his mind was filled with all that he wanted to say to her, ask of her. But she hadn’t come to him. The days he’d spent in bed recovering, she’d been busy overseeing the restoration of the castle and tending to the needs of her people. When he finally ventured out of his bedchamber, she remained out of reach. She’d taken to eating her meals in the lord’s chamber instead of the Great Hall. She regularly met with what was left of the northern lords in a private audience chamber, where he felt his presence was unwanted. He’d been home ten days now and hadn’t spoken more than three words to her.

Sam stared at his friend. “‘ _Why?’_ The Iron Throne is a pile of ash. King’s Landing is in ruins. People are looking for leadership. You saved the realm from complete destruction, and not just from one threat, _two_.”

“Shouldn’t you be reading these scrolls to Sansa instead? She’s the Lady of Winterfell. She’s the one who held everything together. All I did was swing a sword.”

“You did more than that. And I already have. She told me to read them to you as well.”

He opened his eyes and stared at him. “You’ve spoken to her?”

With a slight grin, Sam nodded. “Of course I have. I speak to Lady Stark every day.”

“What do you talk about?” he asked, his eyes widening. “Has she ever…? I mean, does she ever… _say anything_ … about me?”

“She inquires after your health a great deal,” Sam answered with another grin. “She was quite worried about you, you know. The state you were in when you arrived…” He shook his head and sighed as he unraveled a scroll. 

Jon gazed over at the crackling fire. Gilly was sitting quietly in front of the stone hearth, her infant son in her arms. He thought the boy looked four or five months old. Had he truly been gone that long? Gilly hadn’t appeared to be with child when he’d left Winterfell to wage war against their enemies. The boy had been named Dickon, after Sam’s younger brother who’d been executed by dragonfire before the war; executed at Daenerys Targaryen’s command for refusing to bend the knee. He watched as Gilly and Sam exchanged smiles. Their expressions were content, but he could sense a deep sadness lay beneath.

Sam and Gilly had wed in front of Winterfell’s heart tree while he was gone, sometime after the war had ended. She’d also given birth to another son. In those early days when he’d done nothing but lay in bed, Arya had recounted all that had happened at Winterfell in his absence. She told him of Bran, trying his hardest to protect the castle, finally unable to prevent the White Walkers from penetrating its walls. She told him of the Walker that came for Gilly’s son. With her Valyrian steel dagger in hand, Arya had been able to defeat it but had been too late to save Little Sam, and the child had perished. His mother had been hysterical with grief.

Jon turned his gaze from Gilly sitting by the fire and considered his friend, who was reading a scroll from House Tarth. Lord Selwyn would be traveling to Winterfell himself _“to confer with the son of Rhaegar.”_ Jon cringed at the name, before letting out a heavy sigh. “I don’t want to be conferred with. I’m _tired_ , Sam.”

“I know you are. I can imagine what you’ve suffered, and I know you’re just beginning to mend. But a lot of work needs to be done; not just for Winterfell or the North, for the realm. It’s a daunting task, surely. But not one you have to take on alone.”

Before Jon could reply, the chamber door opened and Sansa appeared.

*****

As Sansa stepped into the room, she could feel her heart pounding in her chest as if it would burst through her ribs. Nerves filled her stomach, like butterflies trapped in a glass jar, and she clutched the woolen fabric tightly in her hands. Closing the door, her eyes quickly found Jon’s, staring at her with a look of surprise from where he sat at the table. She breathed deeply, feeling nervous and excited, tense and eager all at once. She nodded a silent greeting and moved toward the stone hearth, sitting in the chair beside Gilly and warming herself in front of the fire. With the dark woolens placed upon her lap, she began to sew.

“Do you want some help, Lady Stark?” Gilly asked quietly. “Surely I can do that. Or I can get one of the servants to do it. You shouldn’t have to mend clothes.”

“I don’t mind,” she replied, giving her a slight smile. “And I’m not mending any clothes tonight. I’m making new ones… for Jon.” The baby started fussing, and Gilly lifted him to her shoulder, rubbing his back. Sansa watched mother and son, regarding them affectionately. She then dropped her gaze and kept her head down, focusing on her needlework.

Sitting at the table, Jon continued to stare at her, not having taken his eyes off her from the moment she entered the room. After several moments, he finally spoke. “You don’t have to make new clothes for me, Sansa.”

She scoffed. “Don’t be silly. What you arrived in was beyond repair and any clothing you have left here in the castle…” She paused, her voice then softening. “Won’t fit you right now.”

Emotion welled up inside her as memories came forward, emotion she tried hard to suppress. Sansa remembered the sudden alertness of Ghost, of him getting up and bolting from the Great Hall. She remembered the loud shouts from the guards soon after, calling out that a dragon was approaching the castle. She had hurried toward the North Gate, passing the crypts, her heart in the pit of her stomach. She’d convinced herself weeks before, perhaps even months, that he was dead and never coming back. But somehow hope had survived, had persisted.

After commanding the guards to open the gate, she had soon felt and heard the loud thud when the green dragon landed outside Winterfell’s walls. She’d then watched a man, unrecognizable at first, slowly pass through the gate. His clothes were torn and tattered, his dark hair was long and matted, and he was half-starved. He’d barely made it past the gate before he collapsed from exhaustion. Ghost ran to him. People were rushing into the courtyard, and she’d watched as Tormund also bounded towards him, easily lifting him up off the ground.

She’d led them inside the Great Keep, walking all the way up the granite stairs until they reached his bedchamber. Servants filled basins with hot water, went off to the kitchens to fetch bread and soup. Together, Sansa and her sister stripped Jon of his wet and dirty clothes. The sight of him had been a shock to their senses. His gaunt body was a plethora of battle scars, old and new. Wounds were clearly infected. The tips of his fingers had turned black from frostbite.

Arya had then run from the room to find Samwell Tarly, who was the closest thing to a maester the castle had. Sansa could only stare in horror. She covered Jon with warm furs and fell to her knees at his bedside, the tears she’d held back for so long finally beginning to fall.

 _“Sansa,”_ he’d said, his voice hoarse.

She’d lifted her head to look at him. His bright eyes gazed back at her like brown stars. _“Yes,”_ she’d whispered tearfully.

 _“You’re alive.”_ His eyes had then closed again, and he’d slipped back into unconsciousness.

Coming out of her reverie, pushing the memories away, Sansa let out a deep sigh and continued with her sewing. “It might be some time before you can fit into your old clothing again, Jon. Our food stores are limited until supplies can be replenished. We have to ration.”

Jon gazed at her, wondering what she was thinking about. She was right. He wasn’t the same man as before he’d left Winterfell to take a final stand against the Night King and Daenerys, in more ways than he could sometimes wrap his head around. But he didn’t want to think about it anymore, about Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, about Ned Stark and the lies he told, the secrets he kept. Thinking didn’t change anything and only made the hurt worse. Each day he cared less and less. All that truly remained was a lingering sadness over what might’ve been had his mother lived, and a lingering fear over what Sansa thought of him now that he was no longer a Stark, no longer her brother. He found he could voice neither aloud. Something weighty and ragged settled in his chest whenever his thoughts turned to Sansa and what place, if any, he’d have in her life now.

“What have you been doing?” Jon asked her.

“Today?” replied Sansa. “A great many things. But just before I joined you here, I was down in the crypts lighting candles for Father and Rickon and…” She paused. “Your mother.”

He stared at her. The sadness was back again, and the fear. “We need to have a tomb made for Robb, and for Lady Catelyn.”

She nodded, her head still bent, her fingers busy with her needlework. “Eventually we will. There are more important matters that require our attention first.”

Sam glanced between Jon and Sansa, pursed his lips, and then stood up from the table, leaving the scrolls behind. He moved quickly and quietly to the chamber door. Once opened, he turned back. “Gilly, would you accompany me to the kitchens? There’s something I need to check on.”

“At this hour?” she replied, turning and arching her brow. Her son was still awake, and she was cradling him against her shoulder, gently bouncing him in her arms.

“Yes.” He gave her a sharp look, eyes widening.

Sighing, Gilly stood up from her chair. “Oh, all right.” She then took a few steps and held out her baby. “Would you mind holding him for a few minutes, Lady Stark?” she asked in a low voice.

She quickly glanced over at Jon as she laid her needle and thread down on her lap, a faint feeling of embarrassment coming over her as she took the baby. Jon watched her hold Sam’s infant son, a flurry of mixed emotions blowing through his heart. He stood up from the table and walked towards the hearth, taking the seat Gilly had just vacated, sliding it closer to Sansa. She turned to him and smiled as he sat down beside her. The light from the fire bathed her in a soft golden glow, the blaze reflected in the red strands of her hair. He watched her wistfully, a smile forming on his face, as she began singing softly to the baby. He watched her eyes light up, noticed how quickly she became absorbed with the infant, saw how naturally it came to her. 

Jon’s heart constricted. His feelings for Sansa had neither grown dull nor faded with time. The weeks he’d spent courting Daenerys Targaryen’s support and dragons, the time spent in King’s Landing, as far from Winterfell as he’d ever been, the months battling for survival in the freezing darkness. The time away had done nothing to diminish the passion he felt for her. Before he learned the truth about himself, he’d believed it his duty to control a passion whose evil nature he was painfully aware of. But now the truth was out, and siblings they were not.

“What are you going to do about the dragon?” Sansa asked, breaking the silence.

“I haven’t decided,” answered Jon.

She thought for a moment. “You’ll need to decide quickly.” She turned to look at him. “What do you want, Jon? Whatever you want, it’s yours. No one will stand in your way. I’ll make sure of it. The entire realm owes you their lives.”

He sighed. “I don’t want anything. No one owes me anything.”

Sansa eyed him thoughtfully. “Do you want to go back south? Return to Dragonstone? Or to King’s Landing? To rebuild and repair? Remake the Iron Throne? They’re yours for the taking. You were a good king, Jon. And you can be one again.”

Frowning, he furrowed his brows. “The Iron Throne can remain a pile of ash for all eternity and Dragonstone can sink into the sea, for all I care.”

She smiled to herself, a feeling of elation rising within her. Their eyes then met and held. Her heart was pounding again. “What do you truly _want_ , Jon? More than anything else in the world? Tell me.”

He knew exactly what he wanted. But how could he say it aloud? His stomach in knots, his heart pounding against his ribs, he finally spoke. “The first thing I can ever remember wanting: to be Eddard Stark’s heir, the Lord of Winterfell. And to have a beautiful lady wife, a son to call Robb, a daughter who takes after Arya. But I’ll never have those things. They were the foolish dreams of a boy. Winter came… winter came for us all.” Emotion nearly choked him, and he swallowed against the lump forming in his throat. “If you will allow me to stay in Winterfell for the rest of my days, I’ll be content. I don’t want a title or a castle or a throne. I just want to stay here, with you. That’s what I want.”

Pausing, she fidgeted with the baby, her stomach tightening with nerves. “There’s something I want to speak to you about. Since your return, I’ve had several meetings with the northern lords. What’s left of them, anyway.”

He stared at her, the fear rising again. When he’d finally returned to Winterfell from his trek to Dragonstone, and his Targaryen identity was made known, the northern lords had promptly cast him off, dethroned him, and made it clear he was unwanted in the North. Almost panicking, Sansa had tried to get them to listen to her, but they were too enraged. Soon after, Daenerys became enraged. And then everything quickly went to shit. What did the lords think of him now? He was still the same Jon Snow, still the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. Nothing had changed.

“What did you discuss with them?” he asked hesitantly.

“The future of House Stark.” Sansa lifted the baby up, smiled when he giggled, and then hugged him to her again, kissing his cheek.

Jon gazed at her, transfixed. “I’m not a Stark.”

She scoffed. “Nonsense. You’re the son of a Stark, the nephew and grandson of Starks, the… cousin of Starks. And you’re a Stark to _me_. That’s what matters. So, I’ve helped our bannermen see reason.”

“We were never able to really speak before I left again, about how my parentage changes things. I know you must’ve been angry, just as they were, about everything, but…”

She shook her head. “I wasn’t angry, Jon. I was shocked, to be sure. But the shock soon faded, and I felt…” Her cheeks became flushed. “Hopeful. But you were gone again, and I didn’t have the chance…” She paused, her face reddening further. “And Arya, well…,” Sansa continued, laughing to herself as Gilly’s babe began squirming in her arms. “She still thinks of you as her big brother. Nothing will change who you are in her mind. Although, I think I’ve convinced her of the necessity to refer to you as our cousin when in public.” She lay the restless baby on his back, cuddling him against her and rocking him in hopes he’d fall asleep.

“And you?” he asked, with an intent gaze. “Do you still care for me as a brother?”

“I think it best if you and I are clear about who and what we are,” Sansa replied, her heart fluttering inside her chest, her stomach churning with nerves. “I may not be your sister, but I _am_ your cousin. The northern lords have accepted the truth of it, and so should we.” Turning to look at him, her expression softened, becoming tender. “Jon, all those things you want can still be yours.”

He stared at her. Their lords bannermen would never agree to installing him as King in the North again. They certainly wouldn’t agree to granting him lordship over House Stark, not if Ned Stark’s trueborn children still lived. “How? Winterfell will never belong to me. It belongs to you, and Bran and Arya. It’s yours.”  

 _“How?”_ Sansa let out a breathy laugh in disbelief. “Since I was a young girl, I’ve only ever been valued by others for my claim. Men schemed and planned and murdered, all to have me and my claim to Winterfell, to have the power it would bring them. And there you sit, everything you want most in the world within your grasp, and you won’t just take it.”

“Do you think I’m anything like those men?” Jon asked, his voice raising in frustration.

Sansa smiled. “You’re nothing like them.”

He should’ve known it was only a matter of time before she twisted him into knots. “I don’t want your fucking claim. I want _you!”_  

The words hung in the air between them as his dark eyes held hers. She should say something, but she couldn’t. She felt as if her heart was in her throat. It was back again, and this time she recognized it for what it was; the intensity of the attraction sparking between them was almost overwhelming. They used to skirt around it, pretend it wasn’t there, and then argue over everything except what was truly frustrating them. She would skirt around it no longer.

Maneuvering the babe to hold him with one arm, Sansa reached out her other hand toward Jon. He let out the breath he’d been holding and held out his hand to hers. He turned his palm over and linked their fingers, loose at first, and then closing tight. She stared down at the connection, almost in wonderment of what was happening. He then lifted their joined fists up to his mouth and kissed the back of her hand. She could feel her pulse racing as his affectionate gaze held hers.

The chamber door opened abruptly, breaking the spell of quiet. Samwell Tarly and Gilly had returned. While she retrieved her sleeping son from Sansa’s arms, he moved over to the table to gather up the scrolls.

“You best be getting up to bed, Jon,” he admonished his friend. “You need your rest to get back to your fighting strength.”

“I don’t plan on doing anymore fighting, Sam.”

He smiled. “Oh, you know, it’s just an expression. But you do need to get healthy again. A lot of work to be done in the months ahead.”

Gilly nodded, holding her baby against her shoulder. “Sam, did I tell you? The icicles along the battlements have begun to melt. There was less snow on the ground today than yesterday. And there was less yesterday than the day before. That will make the work a bit easier. The spring thaw is here.”

“Spring,” sighed Sam contentedly. “I never thought I’d see it.”

“It means sunshine and warmer days are in our future, thank the gods,” Gilly said.

Her husband nodding, smiling. “It also means weddings and feasts and babies. New beginnings.”  

As Jon’s gaze met Sansa’s, a thousand unspoken words filled the air. They felt content and secure with the sudden feelings of intimacy and warmth between them, and the look in each other’s eyes. The look where they silently promised each other their love and loyalty. The look where they promised each other forever.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic is inspired by two things: 1) A scene in an episode of _The X-Files_ with the same title, and 2) an epic poem of the same title by Anna Akhmatova, set in winter and memorializing the suffering under Stalin, with a theme of survival after unspeakable suffering as the ice begins to thaw.
> 
> Shout-out to @obiwan-katnobi on Tumblr (kattyshack on AO3) for being the best sounding board ever.


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